Under the Skin

by Vicki Lane

  I shook loose from her grasp and hurried from the kitchen, calling back over my shoulder. “Relax, Glory—it’s probably Laurel. She’s coming out to do some sketching this morning and she usually calls to see if I need anything from the store.”

  Laurel is way too impatient to wait through more than six rings and I was in need of some lemons for a dessert I’d decided to fix for Phillip—beignets, indeed—so I scrambled to reach the phone by the fifth ring.

  “Laur,” I gasped, “three lemons … or a bag, if they look okay.”

  There was silence and I thought I’d missed her. Then a deep voice asked, “Is this Elizabeth … Elizabeth Goodweather?”

  I had never met nor even spoken with my current brother-in-law but something convinced me that this was Jerry Lombardo and I was going to have to lie convincingly that I had no idea where his wife was.

  I hate lying. Maybe because I’m not very good at it. I avoid it too because of all the complications that can arise from a lie—“Oh what a tangled web we weave,” as the old saying goes, “when first we practice to deceive.”

  “This is Elizabeth.” My voice was cautious. Actually, I’m usually cautious when there’s a stranger on the other end, as I tend to assume that it’s a telemarketer trying to sell me aluminum siding.

  “Great! Listen, Elizabeth, this is Jerry Lombardo. I need to speak to Gloria—it’s very important.”

  My first impulse was to say “Jerry who?” Instead I opted for the evasive, “Gloria? Did you think she was here? Don’t you know how much she hates the country? Anyway, didn’t she tell me she was going to a spa somewhere?”

  Not quite a lie. She had told me that … once.

  There was a deep chuckle. “Listen, Elizabeth, I tried to call Ben but I just keep getting his voice mail. I really need to talk to my wife. We had a little … misunderstanding and Gloria took off. She left a note with the name of a spa but she’s not there and never was. I’ve checked with all her friends and I have good reason to believe that she’s with you. Just put her on the phone and I’ll straighten out—”

  “Jerry,” I interrupted resolutely. “If Gloria calls me or Ben, I’ll make sure she knows you’re trying to get in touch. If you two have had a falling-out, she’s probably just taken herself off for a while—maybe the spa thing didn’t work out or maybe she’s there under a different name …”

  I still hadn’t told an outright lie. But my Jesuitical inventiveness was wearing thin and I dreaded the outright question Is Gloria there?

  A peal of barking from James provided the necessary interruption. “Uh-oh, I need to see what that dog’s up to—sorry I couldn’t help you, Jerry. As I said, if I hear from Gloria, I’ll let her know what you said. Bye now.”

  I gabbled through this nonsense at light speed, ignoring the sputtering of protest at the other end and mashing the off button almost before the last words were out. Then I set the ringer at its lowest volume. If Jerry Lombardo called back, I’d let the voice mail deal with him.

  But the thing was, he really did sound worried. And, what’s more, he sounded nice, whatever that puny word means.

  James’s barking had reached frenzy pitch and as I came into the living room I could see him dancing and wagging in front of the screen door. The door squeaked and my younger daughter bounced in.

  Tall—almost six feet—and lean to the point of boniness, with the typical redhead’s angular facial planes, Laurel invariably turns heads wherever she goes. She’s not beautiful, but, as a wistful friend once said, “Who’d want to be beautiful when they could look like that?”

  Shucking off her bulging backpack and dropping it in a chair, she flashed a brilliant smile in my direction. “Back again, Mum—is there some coffee still hot? I’d love a cup before I head up the mountain.”

  “Coffee’s hot and even better—” I gave her a quick hug. “Go look in the oven and see what your aunt Gloria’s been up to.”

  As Laurel exclaimed over the remaining beignets, I realized that she was sporting a new look. The two fat short braids she had twisted her unruly red hair into made me smile. “I like the new do, sweetie—you make me think of Pippi Longstocking.”

  “Oh, Mum …” Laurel’s words were accompanied by an indulgent smile. She reached for another beignet.

  Leaving Laurel to her late breakfast, I went to look for Gloria. When I tapped on her door, she emerged from her room, her face taut with apprehension. “It was Jerry on the phone, wasn’t it? And what was the little dog barking at?”

  “James was welcoming Laurel, who’s getting ready to go up the mountain and do some sketching. She’s in the kitchen now, enjoying the last of the beignets. And yes, it was Jerry. But I left him with the impression that I had no idea where you were. Come on back in the kitchen; I’m in need of some more of that great coffee.”

  Laurel was rinsing her dishes when we returned, doing a little hip-waggling dance at the sink as she hummed some rhythmic tune. Catching sight of us, she swung around and swiped her hands on the bib of her paint-smeared overalls.

  “Morning, Aunt Glory! Those doughnutty things were awesome! Mum, listen, I’ve been thinking …”

  When Sam was alive, those words were a cue for us to roll our eyes and prepare to batten down the hatches of our peaceful life. I forced a smile and braced for what might come.

  Laurel leaned against the sink, her head bathed in the morning sun that streamed through the window at her side. Curly tendrils of red hair that had escaped the braids flamed into an aureole around her head as she fixed me with a beatific smile. “So, Mum, I was thinking about your wedding and I know you want it simple but I had a brilliant idea.”

  I needed to slow this down. I opened my mouth to do so, but Laurel was bubbling over with her idea.

  “Handfasting, Mum, wouldn’t a handfasting be cool? I know a Wiccan priestess who could perform the ceremony. We could do that thing with all of us joining hands and dancing in a circle around you and Phillip. And I bet Lisa could design some really amazing outfits for both of you!”

  Is there a woman in the world who doesn’t feel that she could plan the perfect wedding? Even I had a few ideas that had been slowly simmering on the back burner of my mind ever since I’d asked Phillip to marry me. And when I’d realized that the summer solstice would be a good date, I’d even begun to assemble a tiny, tentative list.

  “Well, Laurel,” I began, only to be interupted by Gloria. She too had ideas and was able to set aside her worries about Jerry long enough to make a few Gloria-like pronouncements as she sat on the bench filing her already perfect nails.

  “Here’s what we’ll do. I’ll call Keith; he planned my last wedding and it was marvelous! He did the most artistic arrangements—all the flowers flown in from Bali or Fiji or someplace like that. Lizzy, if you’re still determined to have it here and not at the Grove Park or someplace really nice, at least we can do it with a little style. Keith will organize the food and the decorations. You’ll love him. It’ll be my gift to you. But you need a theme … let me think. ”

  “Have you and Phillip picked the date yet, Mum?” Laurel dried her hands and tossed the dish towel on the counter. “Rosemary emailed me yesterday and was wondering.”

  “Not yet,” I admitted, “but—”

  Without waiting to hear the rest, Laurel ducked into the pantry and untacked the Old Farmer’s Almanac calendar from the wall.

  Frowning slightly, she ran her finger along the weeks of June. When she had traversed most of the month, she let out a squeal. “Do you believe this, Mum? June thirtieth is a full moon and a blue moon—the second full moon in the month! And it’s a Saturday—sweet!”

  Gloria jumped up to peer over Laurel’s shoulder at the calendar. “A blue moon—there’s your theme, Lizzie; so suitable! And your color! At your age, white would be too silly. And with your eyes, blue’s absolutely perfect!”

  She pulled out her minuscule cellphone and began to punch in numbers. “I’ll just check with Keith—if by som
e miracle he’s not booked … blue flowers … What were those gorgeous blue flowers he used on the tables at Eleanor’s birthday luncheon …”

  I started to protest that I had thought the summer solstice would be a good time and then, like a leaden bell tolling, the voice in my head started up again. What was Dodie trying to tell me?

  “Gloria, stop right there,” I heard myself saying in a harsh tone I didn’t recognize. “Nothing’s definite yet. Nothing. You two just back off.”

  Chapter 8

  A Lot You Don’t Know

  Wednesday, May 16

  They stared at me as if I had just kicked one of the dogs. The shocked looks on their faces quickly gave way to a bustle of subject-changing small talk. Laurel asked her aunt how the beignets were made and, at the same time, Gloria began to quiz Laurel about her bartending job.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, my voice choking. I grabbed the bucket of scraps for the chickens. “I didn’t mean to sound so … I had trouble sleeping last night and I guess I’m a little … Oh hell, I’m going down to feed the chickens.”

  They broke off their chatter and turned wide eyes on me as I croaked out another Sorry and hurried out the door before I had to hear their soothing reassurances … or their questions. I made it off the porch before the tears came.

  Crying doesn’t come easily to me. I’ve always fought against it, especially if I’m around anyone else. Maybe I see it as betraying weakness—I don’t know. I do know that it’s something I do best in private. And even then, only rarely. But when the tears come, despite my best efforts, they come in a torrent—as if to make up for a long drought.

  So I picked my way down the steep gravel road, eyes streaming, nose running, snuffling and sniffling in a way that I’m sure Sophia Loren would have had something to say about. I wasn’t crying because my wedding was in danger of being hijacked by Gloria and Laurel and their ideas and their themes—well, maybe that was some of it—but the thing that had me in its grip was the thought that, after all this time, after I’d finally made the decision to marry Phillip, to trust him—oh, bloody hell!

  By the time I reached the place in the branch where a little trough over a rock allows me to fill a bucket with water for the biddies, I’d pretty much run out of tears and was reduced to gulps and the occasional hiccup. The inviting patch of grass by the branch was out of sight of the house so I plopped down in the shade of the trees and tried to regain some measure of calm. After wiping my face on my T-shirt, I closed my eyes and began to take deep breaths.

  So many thoughts were fighting to surface—my feelings about Gloria … Why was I turning into such a bitch? And Phillip—no, Phil, all of a sudden he’s Phil.

  Was I jealous of my sister?

  Oh, please. I’m not the jealous type. Am I?

  And that mocking inner voice whispered, Not the crying type either, are you?

  Something bumped against my shoulder and I opened my eyes to see Ursa. Shaggy, muddy Ursa, who had evidently been taking her ease in the little pool lower down the branch, was rubbing against me with what I chose to interpret as doggy concern rather than an attempt to dry herself.

  I put an arm around the big dog, ignoring the dripping fur. I’d already trashed my T-shirt wiping my eyes and my runny nose—at least now I could cover up the evidence of my uncharacteristic crying jag.

  Ursa sat down beside me with a heavy thump, then laid her head in my lap and promptly went to sleep. “Our Zen dog,” Laurel calls her; whether it’s the result of philosophy or just a slow metabolism, Ursa’s approach to life is admirably laid-back.

  Sitting there with my hand on Ursa’s flank, watching it rise and fall with her breathing, at last my mind slowed and faced the real problem—not when the wedding would take place nor what its theme would be. No, the real conundrum I’d been mentally dancing around was Aunt Dodie’s question about the Hawk—the guy Sam hadn’t trusted. Why the hell hadn’t I dealt with this? It wasn’t my usual policy to ignore painful necessities—and that’s what this was.

  I knew that I loved Phillip, that he was who I wanted to spend my life with. But if I asked him about the Hawk … oh god … could I trust his answer, whatever it might be … would there be a wedding at all?

  I dawdled away half an hour or more, feeding the chickens, gathering the eggs, even pausing to do a little weeding in the bed of daylilies and black-eyed Susans that fronts the chicken yard. By the time I’d cleared the bed of incipient devil-in-the-garden, crabgrass (“crap grass” as some of the old-timers call it), and all the other weeds that had taken root in the rich soil, there was a huge pile of fresh green stuff for the biddies’ eating pleasure.

  When I dumped the armload of weeds on the dirt of the chicken yard, Gregory Peck, the handsome Ameruacana rooster, began at once to scratch through the stems and leaves, all the while making encouraging clucking sounds to summon his harem. I sat myself down in the doorway of the chicken house and watched as he went through the always enchanting rooster routine of picking up choice bits, then dropping them so the hens could eat first.

  The birds were still scratching and exclaiming Oooh! A lovely bug! in their pile of fresh greens when I started back up the road. I felt sure that by now the telltale reddening would have faded from my face and eyes and that I would be able to deal with my sister rationally and unemotionally. Just as I would, in the fullness of time, deal with the questions raised by Aunt Dodie’s letter—rationally and unemotionally.

  “Mum, where’s that burn ointment we used to have—the white gunk in the blue plastic jar?”

  Laurel’s voice floated out of the pantry. Gloria was nowhere to be seen but from the back of the house I could hear the sound of music—and a man’s mellow voice exhorting the listener to climb every mountain.

  “Did you burn yourself?” I asked, setting down the wire basket with the morning’s collection of eggs. “I kind of think I threw it out—it was almost empty and what was left had turned a funny color. It was only about twenty years old—probably its use-by date expired ages ago.”

  I could hear the sound of Laurel rooting around on the crowded pantry shelves. “No, I don’t see it … maybe you have something else … peroxide, calamine, antibiotic ointment, cough syrup …”

  “Let me see the burn, sweetie,” I said. “I’m afraid I haven’t gotten around to replacing that white gunk yet. I went on a rampage a while back and got rid of all the expired medicines. Believe it or not, the shelf is much tidier than it was before. How bad is the burn? I have a first-aid kit down at the shop. There might be some—”

  Laurel emerged from the pantry with a cobweb draped across the top of her head—the medicine shelf is the topmost one, a holdover from our childproofing days.

  “It’s Gloria who has the burn, not me. She said it was from the hot grease when she was frying the little whatchamacallits. It’s not that bad but it was starting to bother her some.”

  Laurel downed the last of her coffee and shrugged on her knapsack. “I need to move along if I’m going to have any time for my sketches. It’ll take me twenty minutes anyway to get up to the top of Pinnacle and—”

  “Laurel.” I caught at her arm and followed her out to the porch. “Listen, sweetie, I’m sorry I snapped at you. I’m sure a handfasting is a lovely ceremony but I’m no more a Wiccan than I am a Christian. Having a religious ceremony would seem … well, hypocritical. Will you have a sandwich with us when you come back down? I promise to be in a nicer frame of mind.”

  “ ’S okay, Mum, no biggie.” My daughter looked at me with a motherly kind of affection and gave me a one-armed hug. “It’s probably natural for you to be a little on edge, with the wedding coming up and all.”

  With a glance toward the door, she added in a conspiratorial whisper, “And I can see how Aunt Glory would get right up your nose—no wonder Ben doesn’t go home more often. She’s already suggested that I change my hair, dress better, and think about getting a real job, maybe receptionist at a law office. Somewhere I’d mee
t someone nice.

  “But anyway,” Laurel continued cheerfully, “I made myself a peanut butter sandwich and snagged a cider to take with me. I don’t have to be at work till five so I can stay up there till around three-thirty. Sweet!”

  Another brisk hug and she was off, bounding down the steps, Molly and Ursa trotting after her. I watched them go, then turned to lean on the rail and stare for a bit at the distant mountains, listening to a persistent towhee calling from the shrubs below and allowing my thoughts to drift like a feather on the wind.

  I was in a much better mood when I pulled open the screen door to return to the house. New game. Now for Gloria. Apologize again and try, politely but firmly, to make sure she doesn’t bring in her florist friend from Florida.

  The silly alliterative phrase made me grin and I began to think of ways to improve on it. Fancy florist friend from Florida … fancy florist friend from freakin’ Florida … fancy f—

  All f-words fled—well, almost all—at the sight of Gloria, in skintight turquoise and fuchsia, lying on the living room floor doing something slightly obscene with a fat iridescent purple ball. James was making little darts at her face with his tongue and she was fending him off with one hand while raising and lowering the other arm. It was quite a picture. Freakin’ funny, as a matter of fact.

  “Lizzy!” Gloria gasped, removing first one and then the other leotard-clad leg from atop the ball and waving them about in the air. “I just don’t know if this is going to work.”

  I called James off and put him outside but Gloria had stopped her … whatever it was and had assumed a cross-legged position on the mat beneath her. I began to apologize for my ungraciousness at her kind—though unnecessary—offer to help with the wedding but she waved my words away.

  “Not a problem, Lizzy. I remember how touchy Mother was when she was going through menopause. You know, exercise can do wonders for your mood, as well as help with weight control …”